It is understood that the funeral arrangements
have been entrusted to our very respectable fellow-townsman Mr.
Smith, and will take place on Monday.
NAPOLEON AT ST. HELENA
I see a warrior 'neath a willow tree;
His arms are folded, and his full fixed eye
Is gazing on the sky. The evening breeze
Blows on him from the sea, and a great storm
Is rising. Not the storm nor evening breeze,
Nor the dark sea, nor the sun's parting beam
Can move him; for in yonder sky he sees
The picture of his life, in yonder clouds
That rush towards each other he beholds
The mighty wars that he himself hath waged.
Blow on him, mighty storm; beat on him, rain;
You cannot move his folded arms nor turn
His gaze one second from the troubled sky.
Hark to the thunder! To him it is not thunder;
It is the noise of battles and the din
Of cannons on the field of Austerlitz,
The sky to him is the whole world disturbed
By war and rumours of great wars.
He tumbled like a thunderbolt from heaven
Upon the startled earth, and as he came
The round world leapt from out her usual course
And thought her time was come. Beat on him, rain;
And roar about him, O thou voice of thunder.
But what are ye to him? O more to him
Than all besides. To him ye are himself,
He knows it and your voice is lovely to him.
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